


castles made of sand

by mikkary



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Emotional Constipation, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, gwaine doesn't know how to make friends or be friends, lancelot is too good for this world, merlin is a little confused but he's got the spirit, there is also a picnic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkary/pseuds/mikkary
Summary: OfcourseMerlin has other friends. OfcourseGwaine isn’t the only one to see something special in Arthur’s manservant, to be drawn to those laughing gray-blue eyes and the promise that gleams there like a secret door in children’s fairy stories, like the blank spaces at the edges of a map, like a sign that saysbe wary, ye travelers, for wonders and terrors await.Or, washed up in Camelot, Gwaine helps Merlin pick a flower, and along the way, tries and fails to sabotage the best thing he has going for him.
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 217





	castles made of sand

**Author's Note:**

> It's the year 2020 and I, someone who has been on tumblr since 2010 and should know better, decided to watch Merlin for the first time. Clown wig? On. Clown makeup? Applied. Here I am. Also, this fic is about three times longer than I intended because Gwaine, bless his heart, would not shut up.

Of all the places Gwaine could have washed up, Camelot is… not the worst. And maybe “washed up” isn’t a fair way of phrasing it, since Gwaine is fairly certain that becoming one of Prince Arthur’s personal guard, a knight of the Round Table, is the highest honor he’s ever received. And it’s been good: the easy camaraderie of his brother knights, the acceptance and even reverence from most of the servants and nobles in Camelot. Having a bed to sleep in. Staying in a place long enough that people learn his name and smile at him in the corridors.

And yet.

“Morning, Merlin,” Gwaine says with a sympathetic look and a pat on the shoulder as the servant gives a jaw-cracking yawn. The sun rose only an hour ago and now dew is beginning to steam up from the grass around the training yard as the day warms into summer heat. “Late night?”

“You could say that,” Merlin says with one of those secret laughs, like he’s got a sly joke in mind and only he knows the punchline. And then he looks past Gwaine, and his eyes widen a bit as his face lights up.

Gwaine turns around to look at who’s gotten Merlin so excited, and sees – Lancelot. _Lancelot_? A hard knot of feelings twists itself just a little tighter in his chest. He grins anyway. “Good morning, mate. Running late today? You’re usually the first one out here.”

As usual, Lancelot doesn’t rise to his teasing. “Gwaine,” he says with a polite nod. And then he looks past Gwaine and meets Merlin’s eyes, and smiles. “Merlin. How are you?”

“Tired,” Merlin says and they grin at each other like they’re sharing a joke and they both know the punchline.

Gwaine looks between Lancelot and Merlin and thinks _oh_ , and then _fuck_ , and then, because he could never leave well enough alone, punches Lancelot in the shoulder hard enough that his bare knuckles scrape painfully against his the mail. “Come on, Lance. Best get out on the field before Arthur catches us wasting time.”

“Have fun out there,” Merlin says wryly, this time to both of them.

“I always do,” Gwaine says, gripping Lancelot’s arm and pulling him away. “I always do.”

* 

For the entire morning and most of the afternoon, Gwaine thinks of how to broach the topic with Lancelot. He could do it casually: _So, you and Merlin, huh?_ Except that isn’t really casual, not when Gwaine can hardly shape the words in his head without that spiky knot of feelings getting bigger and more painful in his chest.

 _Seeing anyone lately, Lance?_ A little too confrontational.

 _Got anyone special in your life?_ Better.

 _How’s Merlin been lately?_ Casual. Indirect. It would be a good opening for further discussion except for the words that want to follow: _He hasn’t had time for me in ages but it seems like he makes plenty of time for you. He smiles at you like the two of you know the world’s funniest joke, and you’re keeping it secret from everybody else._

 _I want him to smile at me like that_.

In the end, Gwaine doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if he starts and he feels childish and clumsy and stupid.

Of _course_ Merlin has other friends. Of _course_ Gwaine isn’t the only one to see something special in Arthur’s manservant, to be drawn to those laughing gray-blue eyes and the promise that gleams there like a secret door in children’s fairy stories, like the blank spaces at the edges of a map, like a sign that says _be wary, ye travelers, for wonders and terrors await_.

Merlin is wonderful, and special, and Gwaine should be glad that other people see that too. And he is, though that happiness sticks in the tangle of all his other emotions and never quite makes it from his brain to his heart.

He spends the evening in the Rising Sun tavern with Percival and Elyan. Lancelot isn’t there. He rarely is.

When he stumbles back to his chambers in the small hours of the morning, Gwaine goes the long way around, the route that takes him past the physician’s quarters. There’s no light on under the door but he stands there anyway, thinking about the first time he found himself in Camelot, waking up swathed in bandages in a too-small bed, with Merlin grinning down at him as if the whole world was just the two of them and Gwaine had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

And then he goes to bed.

* 

Gwaine catches Merlin in the corridor, juggling an armful of laundry and a steaming pitcher of water, looking like he’s close to dropping both. He swoops in and rescues the laundry from Merlin’s hands.

“These for the Princess, then? His underthings?” he says, rooting through the pile with mild curiosity just to make Merlin laugh.

And Merlin does laugh, his eyes crinkling up beguilingly at the edges. “Just shirts, I’m afraid,” he says, accustomed enough to Gwaine interrupting his chores that he doesn’t stop or protest, just keeps walking and assumes Gwaine will follow him towards Arthur’s rooms.

Gwaine does. “That’s a disappointment. I was thinking of nabbing some smallclothes and hoisting it on a pole at the training grounds. The true flag of the Round Table.”

Merlin laughs again, and Gwaine feels warmth spread through his entire body. “He’d have your head on a pike! He’d have _my_ head on a pike!”

“Well,” Gwaine says, nudging Merlin’s shoulder with his own but taking care not to jostle him too much, “you know what they say. Two heads are better than one.”

This time Merlin snorts and, feeling no kindred urge to be gentle or delicate with Gwaine, jabs him in the side with one of his incredibly pointy elbows. Gwaine nearly drops the laundry, and only just manages to hold back an undignified squawk. “If you tried to steal the Prince’s underwear, I’d be honor bound to stop you.”

“Then it would be a battle for the ages,” Gwaine says, and grins as they reach the door of Arthur’s chambers. “Listen, Merlin, after you’re done playing fetch and carry for our fearless leader, you should join us at the tavern. There’s music today and I’ve bet Elyan a gold sovereign that I can convince Leon to get up and sing.”

Merlin grins briefly, but his smile is soon replaced by a look of genuine regret. “I can’t, Gwaine, I’m sorry.”

Gwaine opens his mouth, even though he knows better. “Can’t, or won’t?” he asks, and he knows his blow has hit its mark when Merlin’s eyes widen just a little and their gleaming promise fades. He regrets his words almost immediately.

“I can’t,” Merlin repeats, giving Gwaine an entreating look. “I promised–”

“Don’t worry,” Gwaine says, cutting him off. He doesn’t want to know what Merlin has promised or to whom; he doesn’t want to be the kind of person that gets petty or jealous about something like this, even though he fears that he already is. “I know you’re busy, mate. But, hey, offer still stands? Anytime you want.”

Merlin smiles at him again, relief and gratitude plain in his gaze, and says, “Thanks, Gwaine.” He takes back the pile of clean laundry, too, and Gwaine’s arms feel a little bereft without it. “I’ll see you around.”

“See you,” Gwaine says, and he does – on his way to the Rising Sun, he catches a glimpse of Merlin and Lancelot sitting together on the stairs. Lancelot has his head bent towards Merlin with a listening look on his face, and Merlin’s eyes are gleaming as he illustrates his words with an emphatic gesture of his hands, and…

And Gwaine wins a gold sovereign off Elyan, but listening to Leon croon along to a love ballad doesn’t feel like a triumph anymore.

* 

Gwaine isn’t much for introspection, and he’s never been one to spend long tying himself into knots over something when he could act instead. In battle, it makes him courageous – if a bit of a hothead. In personal relationships… Well. Gwaine’s distinct _lack_ of personal relationships before Camelot (before Merlin) probably speaks for itself. But in Gwaine’s experience, you either ruin things on purpose or you end up ruining them by accident, and at least if you do it on purpose, when you look back on them later you can say _I wanted this to happen. This went exactly as planned_.

It’s like – so many of Gwaine’s personal metaphors revolve around his boyhood along the sea in Caerleon – the difference between kicking down a sandcastle yourself, or watching it slump over and collapse as you desperately try to shore it up. Or, even worse, getting shoved aside and watching the older, bigger boys stomp all over your creation.

It’s the last night of a three-day patrol with Lancelot when Gwaine kicks the metaphorical sandcastle. The only surprise is that he’s managed to wait this long.

“So,” he says as they stretch out in their bedrolls under the stars, lounging in the balmy air of a cool summer’s night. He tries to make his tone approximate something like casual, but from the way Lancelot immediately turns and looks at him, he has the feeling he’s missed the mark. “Merlin, huh?”

Lancelot frowns and the dim glow from the dying fire catches on the furrow in his normally angelic brow, highlighting it in shades of orange and red. “What about him?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Gwaine says and flops down on his back, because staring up at the stars through the canopy of trees seems much easier than looking at Lancelot’s face right now. “You and him seem… close.”

“We are friends,” Lancelot says very carefully, like he’s taking the long way around some half-hidden truth, one of Merlin’s secret jokes. Or maybe he’s talking that way because he thinks Gwaine is a madman and isn’t sure what’s coming next.

The thing about sandcastles is, one kick is never enough to bring down the whole thing, and certainly not enough to flatten it. You have to keep kicking until it’s gone. “ _Just_ friends? Come on. You’re always together. And he _smiles_ at you. Surely you’ve noticed.” You can’t _not_ notice Merlin’s smile, not the real one that sneaks onto his face like it’s not supposed to be there and lights up his eyes, his whole body, with a sly sort of mirth that makes Gwaine want to chase the humor to its source, makes him want to burrow into Merlin’s heart and soul until he gets the joke, too.

There’s a silence that stretches on long enough that Gwaine gets restless looking at the stars, and shifts to glance at Lancelot again. Lance is still staring at him, his gaze thoughtful, and Gwaine squirms and wonders what exactly he’s seeing.

“What?” This isn’t going the way he planned. (Gwaine isn’t sure exactly what he had planned when he’d opened his mouth.)

“There’s nothing to be jealous of, Gwaine.”

Gwaine feels his whole face get hot. “Me? _Jealous_?” he asks, sitting up halfway and putting a hand to his chest. He’s striving for disbelief and derision but his voice cracks a little on the first syllable and he mostly just sounds pathetic. “Have you– have you seen my _face_ , Lance? Jealous? I don’t do jealous. People get jealous of _me_.”

Lancelot chuckles, which would have been a guffaw from any other knight. “It’s alright, Gwaine. Go to sleep.”

“ _Jealous_ ,” Gwaine mutters, lying back on his bedroll. His face is on fire. “How dare you.”

There’s no response. Gwaine could keep kicking at this castle, he knows he could. Could dig for a response until saintly Lancelot loses patience and tells him that Merlin is better off with someone steady and good like Lance, says that some inside jokes aren’t meant to be understood. Until he confirms everything he’s afraid of and Gwaine can leave, thinking _at least I tried._

But he doesn’t. Gwaine has washed up in Camelot, and he finds that he doesn’t want to leave.

* 

Some days later, an unexpected summer storm floods the training field overnight, and the knights are given a rare day off from training as servants cart in dry earth and straw to mix with the mud and turn the bog back into a packed earth field.

Gwaine charms a few slices of bread, ham, and an apple off of a willing kitchen maid and heads to the castle ramparts, planning to spend most of the day sitting on the wall, looking out over the land around Camelot, and counting up all the places he’s been, all the places he could still go if he wasn’t stuck here. It’s not _moping_ , regardless of what Percival says. It’s… reminiscing. Yeah, that’s it.

He isn’t expected to be interrupted less than an hour into his reverie, since he picked one of the most inaccessible spots in the castle. And he definitely isn’t expecting to be interrupted by – “Merlin? What are you doing here?”

Because it _is_ Merlin, flushed and panting a bit from climbing up the seven flights of stairs and one ladder that gets you to this hideaway. “ _There_ you are, Gwaine, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Me?” Gwaine says a bit dumbly, his mouth half full of bread and ham, and he makes an effort to wash down his unfortunately timed mouthful with a swig from his flask. “What do you need? It’s not Arthur, is it?”

Merlin smiles and his eyes light up. “It’s not Arthur.” And then he looks suddenly tentative, his blue-gray gaze searching Gwaine’s face. “I was wondering if I – you – well.” He takes a breath and starts over. Gwaine has quite possibly forgotten how to breathe. “I have to collect some herbs for Gaius, these flowers that only bloom after a rainstorm. But there’s supposed to be bandits around the cave where they grow, so Gaius won’t let me go without an escort, and I asked Lancelot but he’s busy today so I was wondering, mind coming with me?”

At first Gwaine’s mind blanks out on everything Merlin is saying except _mind coming with me?_ “Yes, sure, I mean,” he grins as wide as he can. “My pleasure.” And then everything else catches up and he says, “Bandits? Cave? _Lancelot_?”

“He likes helping out with Gaius,” Merlin says, his tone almost… apologetic? “But he said I should ask you?”

There’s that tentative note then, once again, like Merlin isn’t sure that he’s come to the right place, like he’s just waiting for a rejection. Gwaine feels a flash of anger and isn’t sure where it’s directed. “Of course I’ll help,” he says. “You know I’d go wherever you ask.” Merlin does know that by now, doesn’t he?

Maybe he does, because at Gwaine’s agreement Merlin’s smile comes back in all of its secret humor. “Thanks, Gwaine. Does that promise extend to sharing your drinks?”

“Absolutely not,” Gwaine says, and passes Merlin his flask.

* 

The forest is still dripping and misty from the previous night’s storm, and their horses’ hooves are quiet in the soft wet earth. A hush extends over everything, like after the violence of last night’s tempest the whole world is catching its breath. Gwaine breathes in open-mouthed, inhaling the scents of rain and rot and growing things.

“It’s beautiful today, isn’t it?” Merlin asks. There’s a lightness to him outside Camelot that Gwaine rarely sees in the castle – his back is a bit straighter and his smile is freer, like he’s divested himself of some weight on his shoulders. This is the Merlin that Gwaine met for the first time, that day in the tavern. It’s the Merlin that Gwaine likes best. Watching him, Gwaine feels freer too – or maybe that’s just because this is his first time away from Camelot in weeks, not counting mandatory patrols.

“I’ve got to do this more often,” he says, answering Merlin’s smile with a grin of his own. “ _We_ have got to do this more often.”

“Run errands for Gaius?” Merlin asks, his voice teasing.

“If that gives us an excuse to go riding like this, then, yes,” Gwaine says honestly, and it’s probably not the answer Merlin expects, because he catches a surprised look thrown his way.

“What?” Gwaine asks. “I like spending time with you.”

Merlin’s blush is gratifying. “I – well – thank you. I like spending time with you too.”

It’s a simple statement, a bit inane, but it makes Gwaine’s heart feel swelled to bursting. He can’t even find any jokes to make when Merlin suggests they stop for a bite to eat, and pulls out a hamper of food. The kitchen staff like Merlin better than Gwaine, and he can’t blame them; he likes Merlin better, too.

It’s nice. It’s _really_ nice, and so Gwaine has to kick it all down. “Do you do this with Lancelot?” he blurts out, as they’re finishing up, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “You know. Long rides in the forest. Picnics, just the two of you.”

“I,” Merlin begins and frowns at the question. “Are you implying…”

“Not implying anything, mate,” Gwaine says hastily even though his question was heavy with implications. “Just – curious. You spend a lot of time together.”

“We’re friends.”

“Like we’re friends?” Gwaine says and remembers when he’d told Merlin _you’re my only friend_ , remembers how the admission still stung even when it was bookended by meaningless jokes. Of course Merlin has more friends than him, of course he has a right to spend whatever time he wants with them, do whatever he wishes. Gwaine has no claim on being his favorite, his one and only, and yet…

Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it as he struggles to respond. He looks thoroughly miserable and Gwaine knows that he’s spoiled the entire outing. “Sorry,” he says, grabbing the remnants of their picnic lunch and shoving them back into Merlin’s pack. “Let’s forget I said anything, yeah?”

The look Merlin gives him is so pathetically grateful that Gwaine feels awful all over again. He used to be so good at burning bridges, he thinks. So good at ruining things. And now this is twice he’s failed to start a fight, first with Lance, now with Merlin. He’s slipping. He really has washed up.

“Hey,” he says after they’ve been riding for some minutes, breaking the strained silence. “Did I ever tell you about the time I defeated an entire posse of bandits with nothing but a fishing net? Dead drunk, too.”

“No,” Merlin says, tension draining from his face and his smile returning like the blue sky after a summer storm. “Tell me.”

Gwaine does.

* 

Oh, right, Gwaine thinks as he looks at the hole in the ground in front of him. Merlin said _caves_. He _hates_ caves. And this isn’t a cave so much as a grotto – a forsaken hole in a rock wall that’s barely big enough for someone to enter at a crouch. It’s pitch black inside too, so there’s no way of knowing how deep the passage goes.

In spite of the warm weather, Gwaine feels a little clammy under his mail and heavy gambeson. “Let me get this straight,” Gwaine says, stalling for time as they stare into the darkness. “We are searching for a flower that grows in a cave. And it only blooms after a summer storm.”

“After the first summer storm after the solstice,” Merlin says with a bit of an apologetic grimace. “It’s, uh, a very special plant.” He lights two torches, hands one to Gwaine.

“Very special indeed,” Gwaine says, raising his eyebrows. “Magic?”

For some reason, Merlin flinches. “Well,” he says, and when he opens his mouth Gwaine can already tell he’s going to spin some sort of lie.

“I don’t care if it is,” he says, cutting Merlin off. “I trust you, and I figure Gaius knows what he’s doing. But this isn’t guarded by some… some magical spirit, is it? No trolls or goblins or fairies?”

Merlin hesitates like he’s taking a second to process Gwaine’s words, and then shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

“And you’re not afraid, if it is?” Gwaine presses.

Merlin’s smile comes back, stealing across his face like Merlin doesn’t even notice it’s there. “No,” he says, his eyes dancing golden with humor in the reflected glow of his torch. “I’m not afraid.”

In any other man, such an answer would be brash overconfidence. But Merlin… Gwaine has followed Merlin into worse situations. Gwaine will continue to follow Merlin into worse situations. “Alright,” he says. If nothing else, this will make a good story.

* 

There’s another loud drip, echoing against the rock walls that box them in, and Gwaine takes a sharp breath. It makes him nervous enough to be underground; being hemmed in so tightly that they can only walk single file is rubbing his nerves raw. His left hand is sweaty around the torch; his right is clutching the pommel of his sword.

“Gwaine?” Merlin says, glancing back at him. The torchlight reflects a worried gleam in his eye. “You alright?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Gwaine grits out.

“If I’d known you were afraid of–”

“I’m _not_ ,” Gwaine insists, cutting him off. “But if I was, I’d come with you anyway.”

Merlin looks at him a moment longer. There’s another drip and Gwaine grits his teeth and tenses up to keep from jumping once more. For some reason, that makes Merlin smile, and he reaches out to touch Gwaine’s arm. “Thanks,” he says, before turning to continue along the slippery, winding path.

The light pressure of Merlin’s hand makes all of Gwaine’s muscles relax, makes the rock walls around him seem to recede into the distance. It gives Gwaine space, and air, and light, and he thinks, not for the first time, that Merlin must have his own kind of magic to transform this cave into somewhere else entirely, into a place where Gwaine almost feels at home.

He smiles stupidly at Merlin’s back, and is still smiling when Merlin stops in his tracks, making Gwaine run right into him.

“Oi,” he says, banging his elbow against the wall as he yanks the torch back to avoid lighting Merlin’s jacket on fire.

Merlin doesn’t even seem to notice. “Look,” he breathes and steps aside so that Gwaine can peer over his shoulder.

In front of them, the narrow path widens out into a larger cavern. An unseen hole in the ceiling lets in a shaft of warm summer sunlight, which falls on a small space in the very center of the cave. And there, growing just where Merlin said it would be, is a small plant with shining silver flowers.

“Oh,” Gwaine says.

The whole scene is like something out of the illustrated book of fairy stories that he’d had as a young child, before everything in his life went to shit. He doesn’t know where that book went – it was abandoned or, more likely, sold – but that doesn’t matter right now, because he’s filled with a childlike sense of wonder as he stares into the cave. Merlin looks at him, eyes gleaming, and Gwaine thinks _wonders and terrors await, indeed_. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure we should pick it? It’s so… perfect,” Gwaine says. Already, as they move into the cavern, it feels like they’re disturbing something sacred that has rested here for hundreds of years.

“We’re not taking the whole thing,” Merlin says, moving with confidence up to the spot of sunlight. Then he crosses his arms over his chest and bows, muttering something quietly in a language that Gwaine doesn’t understand.

The growing tension in the room seems to ease; the universe lets out the breath it was holding. “There,” Merlin says and shoots Gwaine a glance that is nervous and slyly triumphant at the same time. “Now,” he reaches out and plucks the blossom, tucking it very carefully into his jacket. The light dims just slightly as the shining flower disappears. “Thank you,” Merlin says, and Gwaine isn’t sure if Merlin is talking to him or the plant or something else entirely, so he doesn’t respond.

Merlin crosses the cavern, heading back to Gwaine, who is still standing at the entrance. “Alright,” he says, his smile crinkling up his gray-blue eyes. “Let’s get you back into fresh air.”

* 

Outside the cave, the warmth of the day has turned into late afternoon heat, and Gwaine soon finds himself sweating under his mail as they ride back to Camelot. They have some time in the forest yet before they return to separate lives in the castle, and Gwaine wants to make the most of it. As usual, he does this by talking.

“What did you say, in the cave? You were speaking another language, weren’t you?”

“I… was, yes,” Merlin says, shifting uncomfortably on his saddle and shooting Gwaine a dodgy look, like he’s not sure whether he’s being interrogated or not. Gwaine is about to back down, but Merlin adds, “It was the language of the Old Religion. I was thanking the plant for its flower and asking permission to take it. Gaius… Gaius taught me the phrase.” He looks at Gwaine again, all levity gone from his face.

Gwaine could cry sorcery, and have both Merlin and Gaius arrested for what he witnessed today. They wouldn’t be executed, but they might be banished, because Arthur’s fondness for both of them does not exceed his intolerance for magic. Out of spite, out of carelessness, Gwaine could tear down everything that they’ve worked to build.

But he won’t. And Merlin knows he won’t, and that’s why they’re riding side by side through the forest with a magical silver flower tucked into Merlin’s jacket.

Gwaine smiles. “Makes sense,” he says. “Always ask for permission before picking a flower, that’s what I’ve learned. There was this one time–”

But Merlin is staring at him and there’s something in his gaze that makes Gwaine pause. “What?”

A smile blooms across Merlin’s face, shining brighter than the flower in the cave, and his gray-blue eyes crinkle up like he’s about to laugh. Gwaine thinks that this time, he almost,, _almost_ gets the joke. “Thank you, Gwaine.”

“You’re welcome,” Gwaine says, entirely disarmed.

* 

“So, when you go off with Lance, you’re usually doing errands like this?” Gwaine asks some time later. They’ve delivered the flower to Gaius, who gave Merlin the rest of the evening off; now Merlin is making his way to Arthur’s chambers and Gwaine, not unlike a puppy, is following. Also not unlike a puppy, he’s determined to worry this conversation to death. He’s never known when to leave well enough alone.

He still feels guilty when Merlin’s shoulders get tight again. “We do, sometimes, yeah,” Merlin admits with reluctance, like Gwaine is somehow drawing words out of him that he doesn’t want to say.

“Well,” Gwaine says, shifting awkwardly and nearly running into a pillar as they turn a corner. “That’s fine, then. He’s a good bloke. Good to travel with. Not very talkative, though. I was out with him for three days last week and he barely said a word the whole time. Had to draw it out of him, you know? Like pulling teeth.”

Merlin’s frown dissolves into a reluctant laugh. “He says what needs to be said.”

“Well, sure, but there’s a difference between, say, eating what _needs_ to be eaten and eating what you want, and I wouldn’t deprive myself of good food to slop up leftovers about to turn bad,” Gwaine responds. Now he’s just chattering, because, well, what else is there to do? Merlin isn’t Lancelot and they aren’t alone in the forest in the dark with nothing but the fire for company. He can’t just roll over and ask _so, what about Lancelot_ and anyway, Gwaine thinks that if he was alone with Merlin in the forest in the dark with nothing but the fire for company, they’d have better things to discuss.

There will always be better things to discuss, because Gwaine is afraid of whatever answer Merlin will give, because he finds himself hesitant to raze this sandcastle to the ground.

“And conversation should be like that too. Not that I’m saying I’m a glutton for talk – or food, for that matter,” Gwaine continues without particularly thinking about where he’s going. “But if you put a plate of delicacies in front of me, of _course_ I’ll eat the best ones – maybe that does make me a glutton, come to think of it–”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, interrupting the monologue. They’re at Arthur’s door and Merlin is giving him one of those laughing looks again as they come to a stop. He takes the pitcher of water that Gwaine insisted on carrying for him, then meets his eyes with a smile. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

Gwaine smiles back. He can’t resist it. “Neither do I, mate.”

“Well, then.” Merlin laughs a little before his expression becomes serious again – and a bit nervous, that questioning look shining through his blue-gray eyes. “Listen,” he begins. “I think…” And then he stops, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Gwaine stands there, his gaze drawn to Merlin’s mouth, and waits for the rest of the sentence.

“Lancelot and I, we’re not like that. I don’t have feelings for him, and he _definitely_ doesn’t have feelings for me. So, um.” He gives Gwaine a searching gaze. “Don’t worry about that, alright?”

“Worry?” Gwaine asks, taken aback. “About what?”

Merlin makes an exasperated noise and, with the same nervous determination with which he’d asked Gwaine into the forest, now moves forward, putting a hand on Gwaine’s arm as he leans up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. His lips are soft and dry and Gwaine – who’s been kissed more times than he can count – finds that this simple gesture steals his breath away.

“Just don’t worry,” Merlin repeats, his cheeks flaming red as he steps back and ducks into Arthur’s chambers.

Gwaine stands there for a few moments, poleaxed, as the door shuts behind Merlin, and thinks _well_ and _alright_ and (quietly) _wow_. Maybe all these sandcastles around him are sturdier than he thought. Maybe he should stop kicking them down and building them up. Maybe Camelot was the right place to get stuck after all.

He stares at the prince’s door for some minutes, lost in his reverie, before he grins and goes to grab Percival and Elyan. There’s music again at the Rising Sun tonight, and he has the strangest desire to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Join the merwaine discord here! <https://discord.gg/FXV3HQ9>


End file.
